Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "You chopped that wood?"

  "Aye, sir." Rivin smiled, not wincing as he ran a hand through his short black hair. His eyes were gray, like his mother's.

  "All of it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The dark brown eyes of his father flickered.

  "Good," he grunted at last. "I have another task for you."

  Rivin groaned inwardly. He had estimated one week until he began planting in the fields—usually that week was a lazy, vacationlike existence where he performed menial tasks and occasional chores, a break before the longest season. But Delanon had been piling jobs on him since weather had permitted, and Rivin feared his father might be trying to put the yoke of "responsible manhood" upon him.

  Well, I am nearly thirteen... I suppose he'll be thinking about marriage, too, soon.

  Outwardly, Rivin's face remained neutral, neither smiling idiotically nor showing contempt toward further work. One would have been considered mockery, the other insubordination.

  But the words Delanon had to say were hardly what his son expected, and it was all the boy could do to keep the shock and joy from showing on his face.

  "I want you to go into town and buy some things. Sacks, candles, Sattar says she needs a new spindle as well." His serpentine eyes turned thoughtful as he appraised his son. Rivin blinked in surprise. This was no chore! He was going into town! Away from the farm! Away from work! Freedom and fresh air!

  "In addition to that, Sattar and I have decided that we can no longer support having Nastasea and Danavan. I talked to my sister, and she said she'd be more than happy to take them—she being no longer capable of having littles and all."

  Surprise again, and relief as well. Rivin and Sattar had been conspiring long and hard to get Nastasea and Danavan out of the house, if only to avoid having to endure a life of poverty and their father's harsh rules... now it seemed their plans would come true.

  "After all, they'd only be a dowry fee and a nuisance," he added casually. "And we don't have the money your aunt does."

  Probably because Aunt has the sense to let some of her fields lie fallow, while you plant more than you could ever hope to harvest! Rivin had heard his father's excuses and complaints many times, and had long ago stopped believing them.

  Delanon raised a glass filled with water to his lips and drank. His father had long ago forsworn spirits and beer, sticking to clean water and berry juice, or cow's and goat's milk.

  "Any questions?" the older man asked, wiping his mouth.

  Rivin shook his head, and then said, "No, sir."

  "Then get to bed. You'll be leaving in the morning."

  Rivin bowed his head. "Thank you, sir."

  The soft pad of his feet as he left the house for the stables was all the sound Rivin could make to express his joy.

  Though clouds had built up the night before, the promise of rain had not come through. Rivin awoke in the barn, surprised to find the hay he was lying in (with a scrap of cloth thrown over to take away the itch) was not damp with early moisture. Indeed, the day was clear and the sky blue as the Morningsong excursion began—Nastasea and Danavan behind and Rivin leading in a steady walk. In a way, he was grateful for the clear weather. It meant that the trek would be easier. But dry weather wouldn't make planting less difficult, and he hoped that it would cloud over after he dropped off Nastasea and Danavan with Aunt Rianao.

  I don't care if I get drenched, but the girls are still too delicate. They'd probably die of pneumonia, and gods know what hells I'd go through trying to forgive myself—as well as the suffering Father'd put me through. Not like he'd need to do anything. I'd probably kill myself if I let one of them die.

  Time whittled away as they moved, Rivin's feet taking well to the walk. He glanced back only once, when they got to the top of the hilly slope that overlooked the farm. He thought he saw Sattar standing in the doorway, hands tucked into her apron, the wind stirring her hair lightly. She was a mirror of their father—dark and sharp—except that her eyes were not solemn, they were sorrowful. Ever since their mother had died a month after Nastasea's birth, she had taken on the tasks of housewife and sister, moving like a steady ghost through the house and tending to their needs. He felt a stab of sadness as he disappeared over the ridge, as if he were leaving her forever....

  But I'll be back before the moon turns full. Why do I feel this way?

  Sunzenith rose over the windy farmlands, and Rivin took the time to rest and feed his sisters on bread and cheese and cool water. He himself fasted, knowing that in three candlemarks there would be a good meal waiting at Rianao's. Besides, he would need to keep a tight watch on his rations if he were to make it to Kettlesmith and back.

  By a candlemark and a half, he was carrying Nastasea, who had begun complaining—"feet!"—to mean that her feet hurt. Though nearly five years old, she still talked like one of the littlest littles. Sattar said that they had all been like that, and that this would pass.

  Aye, just like the fears of monsters in the well and colddrakes in the dark. And me—with my fear of the barn. Still get kind of nervy when I go in there at night to sleep. Ah, well, time will cure.

  A thread of wind tickled his face, and Nastasea giggled a little, playing with a digit of his hair.

  Rivin nodded to himself. Time always has before....

  Rivin rubbed his shoulder—weary from holding the burden of his younger sister—trying to massage the pain out of it. His back leaned against the wood-built wall of his aunt's fore-room, his left side toward the cheery fire that was burning steadily in the hearth. He took a long drink from his milk-filled tin cup, grateful for the cool liquid, and smiled when Rianao walked by.

  His aunt's establishment was larger than his home, being the dwelling of numerous children (called Rianao's Brood) as well as a crew of work hands, seven large wolfhounds, and five cats.

  On the other side of the room was an enigma. Seated in a high-backed, armless wooden chair and dressed in white tunic and side-split, white leather riding skirt was Lisabet Morningsong, the Herald-Mage of the family, and distant cousin to Rianao. She didn't look much like a mage—with needlework on her lap and her face lost in concentration as she pulled up a knot—but there was a slight aura about her that spoke of control, restrained power, and authority.

  She looked up at him upon noticing his eyes on her, and smiled slightly, inclining her head at him just a little before reaching into the basket at her side and hunting for a new color of thread.

  "She's here on vacation," he heard a voice say, and looked up at the looming form of Rianao's fifteen-year-old son Tileir, who had met the Morningsong pack as they arrived at Rianao's farm. "Some vacation—haw!" The older boy shook his head as he slid down on the floor next to Rivin. "She's just 'bout as old as Ma an' looks like she was Ma's daughter! They say," his voice grew to an undertone, "that it's the magic tha' does't."

  "I never heard of magic doing that," Rivin murmured back.

  "Neit'er I until m'cousin Kentith told me."

  "And what does Kentith know?" Rivin had only met Kentith once or twice, but had, from first encounter, disliked the boy for some strange reason.

  Tileir gave a braying laugh. "Why, boy, didn't ya hear? Kentith's been Chosen, too!"

  Rivin went silent with shock. "Kentith? Kentith Ravenblack? Our cousin?"

  "Why are ye so surprised? If Lisabet, why, then, whyn't another?"

  Rivin shrugged. "Do'know. It's just..." he trailed off, shook his head. "Never mind." He could see Tileir was going to push the subject, so he said, "Where am I sleeping tonight?"

  Tileir considered for a moment, his caravan of thought rerouted with this new line of questioning. "Why—most prob'bly wi' me."

  Rivin winced, feeling a strange panic build inside. Panic not so much of having to sleep with Tileir, but of what Tileir might do to him.

  Why am I thinking like this? he rationalized to himself in bewilderment. Tileir wouldn't do anything to me! Lady—I think I'm going mad!

  Acro
ss the room Lisabet's head lifted, and she cocked her head to one side, as if trying to hear something she couldn't quite catch. She swept the room with baffled eyes, pausing only momentarily to look at him before going on.

  It was then that Rivin heard the thin wail coming from outside.

  "...No! no! no! no!... won't! won't! won't!... DON'T WANT BATH!"

  Rivin ran outside, stopping when he saw Rianao standing over Nastasea. The child was snarling up at her aunt, her little face streaked with tears and broken with anger.

  "Won't, won't, WON'T!"

  "Now, 'Stasea—" Rianao said soothingly, moving forward.

  "NO!" the child shrieked, hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, eyes squeezed shut.

  "Aunt—here, let me." He moved forward, past the round, horse-faced body of his aunt, and knelt in front of Nastasea.

  "'Stasea," he said, touching her fists.

  "No!"

  His ears rang as her scream echoed around him. In a soft voice he gentled her, watching as her short-lived tantrum drained away, her expression remolding again, except now it was confused and tear-filled.

  "Want Mamma," she whimpered, using her word for Sattar.

  "Mamma's not here anymore, 'Stasea. Rianao's going to be your new mamma."

  "No!" The shriek went up again.

  "Yes," he said firmly, pulling her into his arms. "Yes."

  He stroked her hair lovingly as she sobbed against his shoulder, stuttering out "Mamma" every third word. He could feel Rianao's curious gaze on him as he spoke to his sister. He kept his own eyes fixed on the steaming tub in front of him.

  "Let Ria give you a bath?" he asked at last, patting her back with a note of finality.

  She sniffed and nodded, her eyes downcast.

  "Good." He turned to his aunt. "All yours."

  She looked a bit shocked as he handed her his sister. "I thank ye," she said, blinking owlishly at him as he stood.

  "Twas nothing," he said as he walked away from them, going back into the house, masking his face with false cheer.

  But between his brows was a headache, between his shoulders tight muscles, and his arm once more hurt from holding on too hard to his sister.

  Night!

  He woke with a start, his breath heavy as his eyes strained to adapt to the absence of light. Next to him, Tileir dreamed on, his heavy snoring sending discordant ripples into the pearly pre-dawn silence of the room.

  Rivin wiped his hands over his brow, surprised to find it dry. He had been flushed a moment ago, he was sure of it The room must have been stifling hot—

  But it wasn't. The window was open, letting the cool air in, letting the hot air out. Slowly, so as not to wake Tileir, Rivin stood. He picked up his belongings, cast one last unnecessary, fear-inspired glance back, and then exited.

  Rianao's home was silent save for the sound of the sleepers. The chairs were empty, the sewing set aside, and Rivin found himself thinking, I guess mages sleep, too.

  He purloined a loaf of the oldest bread he could find, then moved outdoors and filled his leather skin with water from the well. His aunt wouldn't mind, he knew, but she would probably be disappointed when she found him gone before she woke. So would Nastasea and Danavan. Rivin had to remind himself that they were only half a day's ride from his father's, and that it would be easy to come and visit... just as soon as he finished planting... and harvesting... and trading... and planning for winter... but then they would be snowbound for all the winter, and then....

  Rivin realized with a sinking heart that it would be a very long time before he saw his sisters again.

  Silent with guilt, he loped down the road.

  Two days later, he was ruing his wish for a storm. While the precious items he had bought in town were securely wrapped in layer upon layer of lavishly waxed skins, he had no such protection, and was drenched to the core when finally he reached home, letting himself into the barn to change and then go via the adjoining, dry overhang into the house proper.

  "Rivin?" he heard, low and soft from his right, and he spun—panic catching him off guard—only to see Sattar, sitting in a golden pile of hay with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She looked up at him, and he noticed the dark rings around her eyes.

  Somewhere inside him, despite her appearance, he felt a deep weight lifted, and relief flooded every pore.

  She's alive, he found his mind sighing.

  "Sattar—" He swallowed. "You scared me."

  She nodded, and he noticed a haunted look in her eyes.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, kneeling next to her. Concern tinged his voice.

  She flinched as he touched her, her muscles clenching spasmodically, and then the emotion smoothed away as she took rigid control of her body. She smiled at him, her lips tight, if not pained. One hand sought his hair and the other went around his shoulder in a gesture that reminded him keenly of his mother.

  "Sa... sa... sa," she murmured. "How was your trip, Rivin?"

  He shrugged, wrapping his arms around her and placing his cheek against her shoulder.

  "How did you convince Da about the girls?"

  "Twas nothing. Da is very easy to talk to if you—catch him in the right mood."

  He heard loss and something he knew but could not name lace her words, but he ignored it, instead closing his eyes and being content to listen to her heartbeat.

  "You know I would've rather stayed—" he started.

  "Sa, sa," she interrupted. "We all must have our freedoms, fledgling. I would not limit you yours."

  He sat up, shaking droplets from his hair. "Look, I'm soaked. How about I put on some of my dry things and you take the packs inside?"

  She nodded, smiling. "I'll get to stoking the fire—Father can complain if he wants, but the rain is a good omen and you're cold. The wood is worth it."

  With brisk efficiency, she took the packs and went inside.

  It took him a while to realize that she had never told him what was wrong, and he cursed himself for not recognizing the same tactics he had used on his cousin.

  Rivin watched the scythe slide over the grain, listening to the whisper of the wheat as it cut. He blinked rapidly, exhaustion blurring his vision. He had been working sun up to sun up for the past two days, with one more day to go. Harvest week was crucial to the prosperity of the crop—if they didn't reap it in time, the wheat would spoil along with their profits.

  While he was used to this sort of work, he wasn't so sure of his sister. She was some hundred yards away, working her section of the field, cutting with slow, even strokes. In the past months since the planting season had started, she had grown more and more anxious—worried almost—with lines of fatigue growing around her eyes. Rivin had no idea why she felt this way—the crop was growing well, and they should be able to harvest enough to make a large profit. But, still, the state of desperation—almost depression—she had fallen into made him wonder, and agitated him no small amount.

  He did not know what made him stop and look up. He thought that he heard a soft voice call his name like a lost spirit on the breeze, but he was never sure. One moment he was biting his lip to keep himself awake, the next his head had snapped up and trained on Sattar, who had fallen motionless in the field.

  "Sattar?" he called, dropping his scythe and running over.

  Rivin knelt when he came to the body of his sister, and was shocked to see blood staining the heavy layers of her skirts. A claw of pure fear gripped his heart, and he glanced toward the scythe she had been using, fearing that she had fallen on it.

  But, no, the blade shone like a clean moon, the silver edge dulled, perhaps, by the work it had been doing, but not bright red with fresh gut-blood. Than what...?

  "Move away, boy!" Delanon roared, coming out of nowhere, and Rivin was pushed back by surprisingly strong hands.

  "Sattar?" he heard his father say, panic in his voice. The man shook her, rolling her over and staring into her pale face. Even from where
he lay in the ripe crop, Rivin could see the sweat on her clammy skin, could almost feel the chill coming off her cool body.

  "Should I—should I get the Healer?"

  "Yes! Now!" his father roared, picking her up and cradling her tenderly, like a lover. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes downcast, and Rivin could clearly hear him say, "Don't die, girl. Papa loves you. Don't die now. Not yet."

  And then the boy was running—not for his life, but his sister's.

  "Let me see," said the Healer, his face blank as he bent over the unconscious form of Sattar.

  Rivin was still breathing heavily as he leaned against the doorway to his sister's room. The Healer lived a full hour down the road, but it had seemed to Rivin to be a thousand miles he traveled before he finally arrived at the old man's house, banging on the door and screaming at the top of his lungs as if the Hounds of Hell were on his heels. It had taken another thousand years to saddle the Healer's horse, and then a thousand leagues to ride back, with Rivin gasping the whole way.

  Now, safe at home, he watched in anxious concern as the Healer drew back the covers and examined his sister.

  After a moment he looked up, giving Rivin and Delanon a severe look and saying, "Please leave the room."

  The two men filed out, Rivin panting now from increased fear as well as exertion.

  The door shut with an ominous thud.

  Rivin waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot. After a moment, he felt an iron hand on his shoulder, and turned to look into Delanon's dead eyes.

  "Go," he said, pointing out the door, toward the fields.

  Rivin's jaw dropped, and it took all his will not to scream, You've got to be joking!

  "Now," Delanon said, leaving no question of authority.

  Rivin submissively lowered his head and walked out the door.

  In the field, he picked up his fallen scythe, looking at the only-half-harvested crop, blind to the fact that the profits this year would be slim.